


The Sinking Of The Titanic: Sixty Years Later

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Titanic Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:18:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is interviewed for a documentary being made for the sixtieth anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic. The story he tells is not the one the interviewer was expecting.</p><p>Huge thanks to Addyke for her historical advice & beta.</p><p><b>Re: Warnings.</b> Although there isn’t what I would call Major Character Death in this fic, there is a great deal of death (obviously, given the subject matter), and it is also told from John’s PoV as an old man at the end of his life, at a time when he has outlived others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sinking Of The Titanic: Sixty Years Later

**Author's Note:**

> References to the film Titanic: Although I have used certain names from the film, no one in this fic is meant to be any of the characters. I have borrowed a couple of minor plotpoints, but I don't feel there's enough from the film to mark this as part of that fandom.

They’d insisted on moving his armchair in front of the window for the interview and they’d put a photo of him in his Army uniform in the background. He hated that photo. It had been taken in 1914, before he went to France, and all he could see when he looked at it was a young man who had no idea of the horror that was coming.

If he’d known that the television people would pounce on it with such glee, he would have hidden it away. It hadn’t been his idea to put it on the dresser when they’d first moved into the cottage, after all.

The red light on the camera turned on, the cameraman ducked to look through the viewfinder and then gave a thumbs up.

The interviewer gave John a reassuring smile that made John want to scowl. Since he’d agreed to be in this damned documentary, the bloody man had been treating him with kid gloves, as if terrified that he’d change his mind. Probably John’s fault for refusing the first two times he’d been asked, before he’d realised that this was his one chance to tell the true story of his life before he passed on.

“Doctor Watson,” said the interviewer when it became clear that John wasn’t going to start speaking without prompting, “tell us what it was like to board the _Titanic_ for the first time.”

John took a deep breath and looked into the camera lens. He thought back sixty years to the busy dock where he’d first seen the ship that changed the course of his life, and remembered the emotion that had flooded through him at the sight.

“It was demoralising,” he said.

The interviewer blinked with surprise. That was not part of the narrative he had planned for his documentary. Well, he should get used it. Most of what John was going to say wouldn’t fit with his narrative.

“I had graduated as a doctor in 1911,” John continued, “but the week after my graduation, I was involved in a carriage accident that shattered my shoulder. My parents had died while I was still studying and my brother, who was an alcoholic, died while I was recovering. All the money I had left after months as an invalid went on paying the debts he left behind. I was unable to get a job with my health in such a poor condition and I became close to destitute. I was rather desperate when I won a ticket for the _Titanic_ in a card game. It seemed like a sign that perhaps I would have better luck in another country, but I wasn’t keen on going. It felt like giving up on the life I had always expected to lead.

“When I walked onto the dock and saw the _Titanic_ for the first time, all I saw was my failure. There was no way then for me to know the great treasure I was going to find whilst aboard her.”

****

John’s ticket was only steerage but his accommodation was a lot better than he’d have expected. Rather than an open dormitory filled with hundreds of other Third Class passengers, he had the top bunk in a tiny cabin crammed with two other bunk beds.

The man in the bunk below him was an American mechanic called Altamont, but after a brief conversation it became clear to both of them that they had very little in common. John didn’t bother asking him to come along when he went up on deck to watch the _Titanic_ leave dock.

As he watched Southampton recede, he couldn’t help but reflect that he was leaving everyone and everything he knew behind him. When he arrived in America, he’d have even less than he’d had in London.

 _Nonsense,_ he told himself as sternly as he could. _You’ll still have your medical degree, and they say there are far more opportunities for new doctors over there._

Optimism was hard to find though, and eventually he gave up and went below deck again.

****

“How much of the ship did you-” the interviewer started to ask, breaking into John’s memories.

John levelled a glare at him that cut the question off halfway through. “You asked me to tell my story,” he said in a tone of voice that he borrowed from the same man he’d first practised the glare on. “Kindly allow me to do so.”

The interviewer shut his mouth and nodded apologetically. Good. If John was going to do this, then he was going to do it at his own pace, in his own time.

“The next day we stopped briefly at Queenstown, and then we headed out into the Atlantic,” he continued.

****

John didn’t bother going up to look at Queenstown. He stayed on his bunk, reading one of his medical textbooks and mostly ignoring everything around him.

By the time evening fell, he was getting restless. He left his bunk and headed towards the Forecastle Deck to look out at the unknown he was heading toward, but it turned out that half the ship had had the same thought. It was taken over by excited young people and the occasional couple sharing a romantic moment. John turned on his heel and walked the length of the ship to the Poop Deck instead.

There he found himself blissfully alone and able to look up at the stars and watch the ship’s wake trail out behind them as the massive engines took him ever further from London.

He stood there for a long while, indulging in a fantasy where he arrived in New York to find a telegram from someone like Stamford waiting for him, telling him that there was a job for him in London and that he could come straight home and claim it.

He was just getting to the stage where he arrived in London to be greeted with joy by an unlikely hoard of his old student friends, when he heard footsteps behind him and realised he wasn’t alone any more. Rather than have his quiet interrupted, he ducked back behind a storage locker, out-of-sight.

A tall, dark-haired man strode into view, wearing a long, black coat and a dinner suit that marked him out as a First Class passenger. Odd, what was he doing in a Third Class area?

The man stopped by a bench and took off his coat with quick movements, then folded it neatly and placed it on the bench. He took a silver cigarette case from his pocket and placed it on top, and then walked to the stern railing and leaned out, looking down at the water below with an oddly contemplative look on his face.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” said John.

The man started and spun around. John emerged from the shadows, watching the way the man’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Wouldn’t what?” asked the man.

John shrugged. “I could be wrong,” he said, “but it looked an awful lot like you were going to jump.”

“And if I was?” asked the man. “You know nothing of my life – it might easily be the best option available to me.”

“I doubt it,” said John. “If you jump, that’s it all over. If you don’t, then there’s always the chance things will get better.”

The man made a scoffing sound at that.

“And besides,” added John, “jumping now would mean my death as well.”

The man frowned. “Why on earth would you say that?”

“I’m a doctor,” said John. “I couldn’t stand by and watch someone jump without jumping after them, and then we’d both die.”

“A doctor,” repeated the man. “I can’t imagine any other doctor doing that. I don’t think you can claim that as the reason why you’d jump. No, more likely it would be because you’ve already been thinking about it.”

That struck a bit close to home. John clenched his jaw and levelled the calmest stare he could manage at the man. “Why would I do that? I’m on one of the most opulent ships in the world, heading to a new continent that’s filled with opportunities.”

The man took a moment to look him over with an intense look that John had to stop himself from twitching under. “That’s not how you see it, though. You said you’re a doctor, but you haven’t practised as one, despite graduating several months ago. You’ve fallen on hard times since graduating, in fact, possibly due to the injury to your shoulder.”

John gaped. “How...?” he managed. “Do you know me?”

The man sniffed dismissively. “Not at all. I merely observed.”

“Observed?” repeated John, glancing down at himself in case he’d written his life story on his jacket somewhere and then forgotten about it.

“Yes,” said the man. “The medical textbook in your pocket would have been bought in your first year as a medical student, and it was published in 1906, so that means you must have graduated last year. It’s well-thumbed so you didn’t shirk at your studies, but you’re reading it now, so that says you haven’t used the knowledge since then and you want a refresher. You haven’t been working as a doctor, then. Your clothes are well-made but in last year’s cut, and starting to look a little frayed around the edges. You haven’t been able to afford new ones, so you’ve fallen on hard times. You’ve lost weight as well – the jacket hangs off your shoulders – which could be due to poverty, but it seems likely that you’d have pawned off your pocket watch if you were going hungry, so it must be due to illness. Add that to the way you hold your shoulder and the injury, and subsequent recovery, is obvious.”

John stared. The man had rattled off the entire speech without pausing for breath, and had got every detail spot on. “That was amazing,” he said. “Just...amazing.”

The man looked taken aback. “Do you think so?”

“Oh yes,” said John.

There was a pause. “That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do people usually say?” asked John.

“Nothing repeatable in polite company,” said the man.

John cracked a grin. “I’d hardly call this polite company,” he said, gesturing at the waves behind them.

The man glanced around and then looked back at John for a moment with an unreadable expression. “No,” he said quietly. He glanced at the neat pile of his coat and cigarette case for a moment.

When he looked back at John, he had a smile on his face. “Sherlock Holmes,” he introduced himself, stepping forward to take John’s hand.

****

“What?” interrupted the interviewer. John stopped and sighed. Young people these days were so impolite. “Sherlock Holmes was on the _Titanic_?”

“Yes,” said John.

“He’s not on any of the passenger lists, either before or after voyage.”

“No,” agreed John. “His name was removed from all the records in 1914. If I may continue?”

“Ah, sure,” said the interviewer, still looking bewildered. John ignored him in favour of looking back at the camera.

“I spent the rest of the evening talking to Sherlock about his deductions and the tiny handful of cases he’d been involved in at that time. He was only twenty-two then, and had hardly begun to make a name for himself. We sat on the Poop Deck until my curfew – steerage passengers had a 10pm curfew, you know - and we separated with plans to meet the next day after lunch. Sherlock gathered up his coat without explaining what he had been intending when he first came up and headed off back to his first class cabin, while I headed all the way back to the bow, to my bunk.”

****

John arrived at the Poop Deck the next day rather earlier than they had arranged to meet to find Sherlock already there, waiting for him.

“And I thought I was early,” he greeted him.

Sherlock pitched his cigarette over the side and made a face. “There’s absolutely nothing to do on this boat.”

“I think they prefer ship,” said John.

Sherlock made a disgusted noise.

“Besides, don’t you have all kinds of entertainment in First Class?” added John.

Sherlock’s expression grew horrified. “ _Entertainment_ ,” he said as if it were a swear word. “God save me from rich people being _entertained_.”

“What about poor people being entertained?” said John. “I heard a few of the passengers who brought instruments with them are going to play in the general room tonight, so that we can have a bit of a dance.”

Sherlock’s lip curled with distaste.

“I’d quite like to see you deducing other people,” said John. “I thought it might be a good opportunity.”

Sherlock looked intrigued at that. “I won’t be expected to dance?”

“I doubt it,” said John. “There are more single men in steerage than there are single women.”

Sherlock considered it, and then jerked a nod. “Very well, I’ll come. I probably won’t stay long, though.”

John just smiled.

****

John paused as he remembered that moment. He’d been so pleased that Sherlock had agreed but he’d had no idea why he cared so strongly then. He’d merely thought that it was because Sherlock was the only person on board that he had struck up a friendship with. His admiration of the way Sherlock’s suit jacket framed his shoulders or the line of his waistcoat around his waist seemed like nothing more than an appreciation of well-fitted clothes.

That hadn’t lasted, and once he got as far as describing the dance, he was going to have to explain the truths that he realised that evening to the camera, or the whole purpose of letting these people into his house would be lost.

“I wonder if I might pause for a cup of tea,” said John.

The interviewer looked dismayed. “We really should crack on,” he said. “We’ve got to get back to London after this.”

John felt his eyes narrow. “It’s barely three,” he said. “You have plenty of time. Meanwhile, I am eighty-four and fast running out of time, and I would like a cup of tea.”

“I’ll make it,” said the cameraman, and then shrugged when both John and the interviewer turned to stare at him. “Well, now the camera’s set up, there’s not a lot for me to do.”

That seemed an acceptable compromise. “Milk, no sugar,” said John.

The cameraman nodded and disappeared towards the kitchen.

John took a deep breath and fixed his eyes back on the camera. Time to get this over with.

“Sherlock met me after dinner and we went down to the dance together. He had dressed as appropriately as he could. Not black tie, of course, but his suit was rather too expensive for Third Class. Still, it blended in well enough if you didn’t look too closely. I thought he looked splendid. He was wearing a cravat and it framed his neck beautifully.”

The interviewer frowned but John ignored him. Time to set the truth free.

****

They stood at the side for the early part of the dance. Sherlock’s shoulder was pressed to John’s, and he ducked his head to whisper in John’s ear a hundred tiny deductions about the people who swept passed them. John leaned towards him in response, unable to keep in his giggles or his admiration.

“That’s brilliant,” he said as Sherlock finished explaining how he knew that the couple currently dancing in front of them weren’t actually married, but were eloping and hoping to marry once they reached America.

Sherlock gave him a pleased smile that looked almost uncertain around the edges, and John wondered how often he was praised.

 _He should be praised every time he’s clever,_ he thought. _Especially if it’s going to make him smile like that._

That was when the realisation struck John that his admiration of Sherlock’s appearance and genius had passed the line of ordinary male friendship. He was moving into dangerous territory, territory that he had told himself he would stay away from after the incident with Fenton.

He tore his eyes away from Sherlock and looked around at the cheerful crowd. No one seemed to have noticed how close he and Sherlock had become or the look John had been giving him, but that didn’t mean that they should stay as they were.

John’s eye fell on a woman who was standing alone near-by, watching the dancing couples rather wistfully.

“I know you don’t want to dance,” he said to Sherlock, “but you don’t mind if I do, do you?”

The smile vanished from Sherlock’s face. “Not at all.”

John didn’t look back as he walked over to the woman.

“I’m sorry to be forward,” he said, “but I was wondering if you’d like to dance?”

She turned to him, looked him over with a quick glance that reminded John of Sherlock even though she must only have seen a fraction of what he would have, and then nodded. “I would love to,” she said. She held out her hand. “Mary Morstan,” she introduced herself.

“John Watson,” replied John, and he led her out onto the dance floor, trying not to look at Sherlock, still leaning against the wall.

****

“Tea,” said the cameraman, bringing it in. John took it from him with a smile, wondering if he should have bothered to learn his name.

“So that’s when you fell in love with Mary Morstan,” said the interviewer, sounding as if he was glad to be getting back onto familiar ground. John did know his name, but he was rather loathe to use it. _Brock_ wasn’t a proper name for a man at all.

“No,” said John. “Haven’t you been listening? That’s when I fell in love with Sherlock Holmes.”

The cameraman choked. “What?” he asked.

John ignored him. “I am aware that your father told you that I never married because I was in love with a woman named Mary Morstan, who died on the _Titanic_. That’s because that’s what I told him in 1941 when he started asking too many questions. Now that homosexuality is no longer illegal, Sherlock Holmes is dead and I am only a few years away from joining him, I see no sense in continuing the lie. I never married because I fell in love with Sherlock Holmes. May I continue?”

The interviewer gave him a gobsmacked stare, and dumbly nodded.

****

John danced twice with Mary Morstan but then couldn’t resist going back to Sherlock, who had spent the time leaning on a wall, smoking a cigarette and looking stupefyingly elegant. He hadn’t taken his eyes off John once as he’d danced and John had barely been able to look away from him in return.

When he came back, Sherlock offered him a cigarette. “You dance well,” he said.

John tried not to overreact to the compliment. “My shoulder’s still a bit stiff.”

“It’ll pass,” said Sherlock with as much confidence as if he could see the future. He glanced away at the ragtag band made up of the more musical passengers and made a face. “This violinist is terrible. Who let him anywhere near an instrument?”

“You’re a fan of music?” asked John.

“I play,” said Sherlock. 

“The violin?” 

Sherlock nodded. 

John looked back at the violinist, who was manfully trying to keep up with the rest of the band, but not entirely succeeding. “Any good?”

Sherlock drew himself up. “Very good,” he said. He turned to glare at the violinist. “I play far better than him, not that that’s hard.”

“Prove it,” said John.

Sherlock looked back at him with surprise.

John nudged him with his elbow. “Go on,” he said. “He’s been playing for over an hour now, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you relieving him for a song or two so that he can get a drink.”

Sherlock glanced back, then a tiny smile flicked over his face. “Very well,” he said. He strode away towards the small stage where the musicians were.

John watched as he had a brief word with the violinist, smiling at him winningly and gesturing at a woman who had her back to them, who John was sure Sherlock knew nothing about.

 _Let me play something to impress my girl,_ he thought, and then couldn’t stop himself thinking, hoping, that the reality was the same but with a change of gender.

Sherlock was given custody of the man’s fiddle and turned to give John a rather smug look as he stepped up onto the stage. He spent a moment or two testing the instrument, then spoke quietly to the rest of the band. They all nodded and Sherlock stepped to the front, raised his bow, and began.

John had no idea what tune it was – some fast-paced Gypsy tune, it sounded like – but Sherlock’s performance of it was magnificent. He frowned with concentration as his bow darted back-and-forth across the strings, filling the air with wild music that made half the room get up to dance. John just stood and stared, breathless at both the music and the sight of Sherlock playing it.

When Sherlock had finished and relinquished the violin back to its owner, there was a smattering of applause. Sherlock leapt down from the stage with satisfaction and walked over to John.

“Well?” he asked.

“You were better than him,” replied John but the breathless, awed edge to his voice almost certainly gave away what he was really thinking, which was _dear God, I want to get you into bed._

Sherlock’s smile threatened to take over his whole face. John let out a low laugh and ducked his head. “Stop looking so smug,” he said. “You knew you’d be better.”

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock. “I’d have been even better with my own violin. His was rather battered.”

“Do you have it with you?” asked John.

Sherlock nodded. “In my cabin.” He hesitated and then said, quietly, “Would you like to come and hear me play it tomorrow?”

John met his eyes, taking in the serious, earnest look in them. He nodded rather dumbly, and then swallowed and found his voice. “That would be lovely.”

****

The cameraman and the interviewer were still staring at him as if he was announcing the Second Coming. John paused to take another sip of tea.

“We spent another half hour or so at the dance,” he said, “then went back up to the Poop Deck to talk.”

“Just talk?” asked the interviewer.

John gave him a look. “Just talk,” he repeated. “Things were rather different then – you must remember that we were both risking rather a lot. That kind of thing was always a risk back then, especially if the other man involved knew your name and position. Sherlock was no doubt aware that it would be easy for me to gain extra money for my new start in America by blackmailing him, and I was wary of gaining a black mark against my name before I even set foot on the shores of what I intended to be my new country. We talked for several hours that night, and we stood rather closer and touched each other rather more than another pair of friends might, but nothing untoward happened. Nothing either of us could have used against the other.”

He took another sip of tea and then admitted, “Well, not until we parted, at any rate.”

****

They walked together to the stairs where they would have to part, their footsteps growing slower as they grew closer.

“I’ll meet you here tomorrow morning,” said Sherlock.

“That sounds good,” said John. They both paused where they were, unwilling to admit it was time to leave each other. John hadn’t realised until he turned to Sherlock just how close they were, with less than an inch between them, close enough that he could almost feel the heat radiating from Sherlock’s body despite the fresh breeze of the evening. He could already imagine what it would be like to put his arms around him and pull him in even closer, to where he could bury his face in the warmth of his shoulder.

Sherlock let out a long, ragged breath and glanced both ways to be sure they were alone. “John,” he muttered, and put his hands on John’s shoulders, pushing him back against the wall, further into the shadows.

“You’re just impossible,” he muttered, and then bent his head to kiss John, pressing their lips together with just as much passion as John was feeling. John clutched at his jacket and pulled him in tighter, letting himself get swept up in the moment as if there was no risk to this at all.

Sherlock pulled away rather suddenly. He gave John a long, lingering look that John could feel right down to his bones. “Tomorrow,” he said, and then turned and hurried away, disappearing while John was still trying to catch his breath.

****

“Christ,” said the cameraman, rather shakily. “This is...” He looked at the interviewer.

“I know,” said the interviewer, sounding astounded. “This is huge! John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were getting up to- Shit, this should be its own documentary!”

John snorted. “Hardly,” he said. “And I think you’re missing the point. You wanted to speak to me because you thought I would bring an interesting human interest angle to your documentary. I am still doing that. The point about the _Titanic_ is not that a big ship sank, it’s that hundreds of people, who had lives and stories that might well have been just as interesting as mine, died. Who knows what other important moments in people’s lives were going on while Sherlock and I kissed? There were people from all walks and stages of life on board. The full range of human existence was there, and then was lost, all within a few days.”

“Right,” said the interviewer. He nodded. “Of course.” He was still barely covering his excitement at the scoop John was handing him, though.

John gave up and carried on.

****

John put on his best clothes the next day in the hope that he wouldn’t stand out too obviously in the First Class sections of the ship. Sherlock took one look at him and snorted.

“I hope you didn’t dress up for me.”

John just gave him a smile. “No, but I thought I might undress for you,” he said in a quiet voice.

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he glanced around the Poop Deck, which held a scattering of other passengers, out enjoying the air.

John was almost as shocked by his own daring. The kiss last night was one thing, making suggestive comments under the morning sun was quite another. What if Sherlock had changed his mind? What if he was only able to cope with such desires under the blanket of night?

 _No,_ thought John. _He propositioned me, and then kissed me._ John couldn’t believe that Sherlock would betray him, not after that kiss last night and the look he had given John afterwards.

John did attract looks as they walked through First Class, but neither he nor Sherlock really noticed. When they reached Sherlock’s stateroom, John took a moment to admire it as Sherlock shut the door firmly behind them.

“This is very nice,” he said. “So much better than mine.”

“I should hope so, given the amount it’s costing my brother,” said Sherlock.

That was the first that Sherlock had mentioned a brother. John frowned at him. “Your brother’s paying?” He realised as he said it that he had no idea why Sherlock was travelling to America in the first place. “Are you managing some business for him?”

Sherlock shot him an enigmatic smile. “In a manner of speaking,” he said. “You’re not here to hear about my brother, though.” He walked over to where a violin case was lying, waiting for him. “Make yourself comfortable.”

John looked around. There was a chair in the corner of the room but he didn’t move towards it. Instead, he settled down on the bunk, taking off his jacket to make himself more comfortable when he leaned back.

Sherlock took the violin out of its case and turned around, pausing when he saw John’s pose. His mouth quirked into a smile, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he set his bow to the strings and began to play.

If he had been good the previous night, he was incredible now. He played John a variety of pieces, all of them beautiful. John sat where he was, not moving in case it broke the spell, and unable to tear his eyes away from how magnificent Sherlock looked as he played. He had his eyes shut as if he was lost in the music, and the curve of his wrist as he held the bow made John want to run his teeth over the line of it.

The last piece Sherlock played was slow and sultry and towards the end he opened his eyes and fixed them on John with a look that implied he was undressing him in his mind already. John found himself loosening his collar and cuffs, and then pulling his watch out of his pocket and setting it to one side. Sherlock swallowed at that and shut his eyes again, leaning in to the violin as John’s breathing grew fast and short. The moment the piece ended, Sherlock set the violin down and-

****

“And?” asked the interviewer. “And what?”

John fixed him with a look. “You can’t possibly imagine I’m going to detail that for your audience. There may be young women watching!”

The interviewer deflated. “Yeah, we probably wouldn’t be allowed to air it.”

John nodded. “Well then. Suffice to say that it was some hours before Sherlock and I were in a fit state for conversation.”

“Hours?” said the cameraman. He gave John a look of respect. “Nice.”

John had no idea how to respond to that. He cleared his throat. “Our conversation was largely also not reportable, but he did ask me to join him at dinner that night. He had found a dinner suit in my size – to this day, I have no idea where – and so, after whiling the afternoon away in a variety of pursuits, we headed to the First Class dining room together.”

****

The other passengers on Sherlock’s table for dinner gave John curious looks as he sat down.

“This Doctor John Watson,” Sherlock introduced him. “This is Miss Dewitt, Lady Bukater, Mr. Hockley, Sir and Mrs. Reginald, and Colonel Brown.”

He went around the table so quickly that John barely caught the names of those close to him, let alone those at the other end of the table. He plastered on a gracious expression. “Pleased to meet you all,” he said.

“Indeed,” said Sir Reginald with a dismissive look, and he pulled his wife and Colonel Brown into a conversation that rather pointedly excluded John’s part of the table.

“Don’t mind him,” said Miss Dewitt, a young and pretty woman who was sat next to John. “He’s rather a snob.”

“Rose!” interjected Lady Bukater, giving her a disgraced look. “Do be polite, please.”

Miss Dewitt gave her an unconvincingly apologetic look. “I’ll try, Ruth,” she said.

Mr. Hockley, who was sat the other side of Rose, gave her a rather strained smile. “You shouldn’t worry about speaking your mind, dear,” he said and patted her hand.

Sherlock made a quiet noise of amusement and John turned to raise an eyebrow at him.

Sherlock bent to whisper in his ear. “Miss Dewitt and Lady Bukater are sisters. Mr. Hockley is involved in a rather extensive business deal with their father, and is also marrying Miss Dewitt once they reach New York. I get the impression that the marriage is part of the business deal. Neither of them seem that taken with the other, although they do occasionally manage to pretend.”

****

“Hang on,” said the interviewer, reaching into his bag for a stack of papers. “What were those names again?”

“Rose Dewitt, Ruth Bukater and Nathan Hockley,” said John. “If you’re looking to see if they survived, I can tell you that the two women did, but Mr. Hockley perished.”

The interviewer stopped going through his papers. “Ah,” he said. “So they never married?”

“I told you earlier,” said John. “There were all kinds of life events and human interest stories going on. Sherlock and I were just the tip of the iceberg, if you can pardon the pun.”

The interviewer winced and John wondered if the joke had been too morbid. _Sherlock would have laughed,_ he thought. God, he missed him.

****

“That’s a lovely necklace, Rose,” said Lady Bukater as the first course was being served.

Miss Dewitt was wearing a rather ostentatiously flashy necklace with a simply enormous diamond on it. John had been quietly telling himself that it was fake and that he wasn’t sat next to a rock worth enough to set him up with a Harley Street practice.

“Yes, isn’t it?” said Miss Dewitt, glancing down and then over at Mr. Hockley. “Mr. Hockley gave it to me.”

“It’s a family heirloom,” said Mr. Hockley with a proprietary smile at it. “I thought it was time to pass it on to the next member of my family.”

There were fake smiles all round and John heard Sherlock very quietly making a gagging sound beside him. He was forced to agree, although he didn’t do so with more than a look.

“It’s called the Heart of the Ocean,” added Mr. Hockley.

****

“What?” interrupted the cameraman, leaning forward. “Seriously? I thought that was just a myth!”

“What was a myth?” asked the interviewer.

“That Nathan Hockley took the Heart of the Ocean on the _Titanic_ , and that it sank with it,” said the cameraman. “It’s one of those stories that _Titanic_ buffs tell, but I thought it was all rubbish. His family had it for years, you see, and then it mysteriously disappeared at about that time. I’ve got to be honest, I always thought he’d flogged it for some extra cash. But it must still be down there, in a safe or something!”

“It’s not,” said John. “He had it, yes, and he gave it to Miss Dewitt that night, but it survived the sinking.”

The cameraman frowned at him. “You’re sure?”

“As sure as I can be,” said John.

“How do you know all that?” the interviewer asked the cameraman.

The cameraman shrugged. “I’ve always been into the _Titanic_. I know loads about it – I don’t need sodding bits of paper to tell me who survived and who didn’t, at any rate.”

The interviewer scowled at him, then looked back at John. “Go on.”

John sighed and looked at his empty teacup. “The rest of dinner wasn’t particularly interesting. After it, Sherlock and I returned to his stateroom. I didn’t bother going back to mine that night.”

The cameraman gave him a smirk and a thumbs up that John ignored as well as he could.

“I did go back the next morning, although only for a change of clothes. I met Sherlock on the deck and we walked up and down the ship together.”

****

The third time they walked along the ship, John spoke the thought he’d had the first two times out loud. “There aren’t enough lifeboats.”

Sherlock gave him an approving look. “No,” he said. “I noticed on the first day. Apparently they were more concerned with aesthetics than safety.”

John looked up at them and then shrugged. “Well, what are the chances we’ll need them?”

****

“Oh, you did not say that,” said the cameraman. “Tempting fate!”

“I did say that,” said John. “I suppose that means the entire disaster is my fault.”

“Not at all,” said the interviewer, glaring at the cameraman. “What happened then?”

“A case,” said John, smiling at the memory. “My first chance to see Sherlock Holmes the detective in action.”

****

John was starting to consider suggesting they head back to Sherlock’s cabin when Lady Bukater rushed up to them.

“Mr. Holmes!” she called, and Sherlock paused and turned towards her. “Mr. Holmes! You are a detective, are you not?”

“I am,” said Sherlock.

She let out a long breath, pressing her hand to her chest. “Then you must help us. There has been a theft!”

Sherlock’s back straightened and an eager look came over his face. “Show me,” he demanded.

“Of course,” she said. “It’s in Rose’s – Miss Dewitt’s cabin.”

She set off and Sherlock followed, with John trailing along behind. Lady Bukaker paused and gave John a disconcerted look. “I’m sure it’s not necessary for us to bother your friend,” she said to Sherlock.

“John assists me,” said Sherlock before John could feel more than an instant of disappointment. John blinked and then put on an expression that he hoped said Sherlock was being completely honest.

“Oh,” she said uncertainly. “Fine, then, I suppose. This way.”

Miss Dewitt was sat in her stateroom looking halfway to hysterics. A maid was beside her, patting ineffectually at her arm and offering water. On the bedside table, an empty jewellery case gaped open.

“Ah,” said Sherlock. “The necklace.”

“Mr. Hockley is going to be so angry,” said Miss Dewitt tearfully. “He told me when he gave it to me how important it was to his family. I was such a fool!”

“What happened?” asked Sherlock, looking around at the floor of the cabin as if there was anything to see other than carpet.

“I meant to give it back to him after dinner last night, so that he could lock it in the safe in his room,” said Miss Dewitt. “But he left early with some of the other gentlemen to play billiards, and I couldn’t find him. I thought it would be fine for one night. And then this morning, I opened it to make sure it was here before I took it back to him, and it-” She swallowed. “It was-” She choked.

Sherlock let out a long sigh.

“It was gone!” she finished, collapsing into tears. The maid bent over her in an attempt to console her, patting uselessly at her shoulder. The chain around her neck swung free of her dress and she tucked it back in with irritation.

“Obviously,” said Sherlock. He glanced around the room. “Well, we should get it back, then,” he said. He gave the three women a false smile, and then swept out of the room. “Come on, John,” he called when John hesitated.

John gave the women a more real smile. “He’s very good. He’ll get it back,” he said, hoping he wasn’t lying, and then followed after him.

Sherlock led John back to his cabin, where he shut the door, pulled John into his arms and kissed him.

“What about the necklace?” asked John, moving away to speak, but not too far away.

Sherlock let out an irritated sigh. “I already know where it is, but we can’t get it just yet.”

“You do?” asked John. “How?”

“Obvious,” said Sherlock. “I’ll tell you later.” He moved in and kissed John again. “We’ve got several hours to kill now, and I can think of much better ways to fill them.”

****

“I can’t believe Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson were having this much sex,” said the cameraman, slowly shaking his head. “Just...Jesus Christ.”

John cleared his throat. “We had just met,” he said. “And Sherlock wasn’t wrong – there was very little else to do on the ship.” He considered for a moment. “Which isn’t to say that he didn’t continue to use similar tactics when there was a pause in a case and he wanted to distract me from asking too many questions before he could do a big reveal at the end.”

“Wait, so those bits in the stories when you go off for dinner, or a long walk, or something...” asked the cameraman.

John cleared his throat. “Generally, we were engaged in other activities, yes.”

The interviewer shook his head. “I can’t believe we’re getting this,” he muttered, glancing at the camera.

****

They didn’t go to dinner that night. Sherlock kept John in bed long past when they should have dressed and gone, although John didn’t notice until Sherlock sprang, naked, from the bed.

“Time to go,” he announced, gathering his clothes from where they were scattered around the floor and starting to pull them on. “Come on, come on, there’s a case to be solved.”

John blinked and sat up. “Now?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Sherlock. “Best time. Everyone’s at dinner.”

John sighed. “I was just about to repay your earlier favour,” he said, glancing meaningfully at Sherlock’s crotch.

Sherlock hesitated. He glanced at his watch, and then dumped all his clothes again. “Dinner does take a very long time,” he said, and collapsed into bed with John again.

****

“In some ways, it’s a bit like hearing about your Grandad having sex,” said the interviewer, musingly.

“No,” said the cameraman, “it’s more like finding a chapter of porn in Jane Eyre.”

John sighed. “It’s neither,” he said. “It’s my life, and it was very real. May I continue?

The interviewer nodded, gesturing at him to go ahead.

****

When they finally made it out of Sherlock’s cabin, Sherlock headed further along the corridor of First Class staterooms and stopped outside a specific one. He bent for a moment and inspected the lock.

“Let me know if anyone’s coming,” he said, and pulled a set of lockpicks out of his pocket.

John gaped at him. “You can’t pick the lock!”

“I can, actually,” said Sherlock. “I am rather skilled at lockpicking.”

“No, I mean,” started John, but it was too late. The lock clicked and the door sprung open, and Sherlock gave him a smug smile.

“See?” he said. “Now, let’s get this necklace.”

He darted inside the room and John followed him, unable to resist his curiosity.

It was a man’s room, John could tell from the top hat sat on the side. He couldn’t tell much else, although he was sure that Sherlock could give him a life history of the occupant.

Sherlock examined the room for a moment, then threw open a cupboard to reveal a safe. “Ah,” he said, and pulled out his lockpicks again.

John thought about protesting again but didn’t bother. He was pretty sure there would be no point.

The safe took longer to crack than the door had, but Sherlock was still inside within minutes. John noted the name of the company who had made it and decided to never buy a safe from them.

“Here we are,” said Sherlock. He reached in and pulled out the diamond necklace, holding it up so that it dazzled in the light.

John gaped. “How on earth did you know it was here?” he asked. “Whose room is this? An international jewel thief’s?”

“No,” said Sherlock, shutting the safe and standing up. “It’s Mr. Hockley’s.”

“What?” said John.

****

“What?” said the interviewer.

“Ssh,” said the cameraman. “You’re ruining the big reveal.”

****

“Why would Mr. Hockley steal his own necklace?” asked John.

“Obvious,” said Sherlock. “He’s trying to get out of marrying Miss Dewitt. If she lost his precious family heirloom, he’d be able to call off the engagement without suspicion, and her father would feel so guilty that he’d still go through with the business deal.”

“Oh,” said John. “I see. But- Seriously, Sherlock, how on earth did you work that out? Did you see something last night?”

“The only thing I saw last night was your naked body,” Sherlock reminded him. “All I saw were the same things you saw. I just correctly identified the important clues, and then put them together. The only people who knew the necklace was in Miss Dewitt’s room last night were Miss Dewitt, Mr. Hockley, and possibly Lady Bukaker. Neither of the women would have taken it – Miss Dewitt would have owned it in a week or two anyway, and Lady Bukaker is clearly too eager for her sister to marry Mr. Hockley to jeopardise that.”

“What about the maid?” asked John.

Sherlock sighed. “Everyone is always so quick to blame the maid when jewellery goes missing,” he said. “The maid has a necklace of her own. Did you see it?”

John frowned. “Yes,” he remembered. “A chain. Something hanging on it.”

“A wedding ring hanging on it,” said Sherlock. “Too new to have been a relative’s. She’s secretly married to someone. And the other person who wears a wedding ring on a chain under their clothes, is Mr. Hockley.”

“What?” said John. “He’s married to the maid?!”

“Indeed,” said Sherlock. “Married to the maid, but he can’t admit it without fear of social ostracism, so he came up with this ploy to get out of committing bigamy. He deliberately disappeared last night so that Miss Dewitt couldn’t return the necklace to him.”

John couldn’t take his eyes off Sherlock’s face. “Brilliant,” he breathed. “Just...fantastic.”

Sherlock looked uncertain for a moment, then smiled. “Thank you,” he said, rather formally.

There was a noise outside in the corridor, and they both swung around. 

“Is that...?” hissed John.

Sherlock check his watch. “Ah, dinner must be over,” he said. “It’s possible we delayed too long in my cabin.”

There was the sound of a key being put in the door lock.

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Follow my lead,” he said, and thrust the necklace at John. “And keep hold of that.”

John tucked it into a pocket as the doorknob turned and the door began to open.

The moment it was open, Sherlock let out a wild cry and rushed out, barrelling past the person coming in – Mr. Hockley - and knocking him back against the corridor wall. John dashed after him, pelting down the corridor and trying to ignore the outraged cries behind them.

Footsteps came after them and John ducked his head to go faster, and also to try and hide the grin that was threatening to take over his face. He hadn’t had this much fun in- well, ever, that he could remember.

“This way!” cried Sherlock, darting through a door that John was pretty sure was only meant for staff. It lead to a narrow, steep flight of steps which they ran down fast enough that John was sure one of them would fall and break their neck.

Sherlock ducked out of another door while Mr. Hockley was still trying to navigate the steps, dragging John through a kitchen, and then out into the First Class dining room. They darted out onto the deck, then around a corner and down another long flight of stairs.

They’d left the footsteps far behind them by that point, but they didn’t slow down. Sherlock led John down into the bowels of the ship, past the engine rooms and down into the cargo storage. They paused there, Sherlock leaning against a car that someone a lot richer than John was transporting to America. John collapsed beside him, trying to catch his breath, and then started to giggle. He couldn’t help it, the whole thing was so ridiculous.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” he said. “Making off with a diamond and running through an ocean liner! I feel like I’m in a cheap thriller.”

Sherlock laughed. “Given the value of both the diamond and the ocean liner, I think we could allow it to be an expensive thriller.”

The look on his face reflected the delight John was feeling, and John couldn’t stop himself from pulling Sherlock down into a kiss.

“That was brilliant,” he said against Sherlock’s lips.

“So you keep saying,” said Sherlock.

“Well, it’s true,” said John. “You are brilliant. Incredible. I want to open your trousers and-”

****

“You’re right,” said the interviewer. “It is like porn in Jane Eyre.”

John stopped. He hadn’t meant to talk about the moment in that much detail, but describing the memories that he had gone over a thousand times in his mind was making him feel as if he could almost step back there. He felt so close to that John Watson, the young man discovering the love of his life, unscarred by war or tragedy and filled with such joy that he couldn’t stop himself from stripping Sherlock naked and pushing him into the back seat of someone else’s car.

“I apologise,” he said. “I didn’t mean to get lewd.”

The cameraman waved that way. “It’s cool,” he said. “It’s just a bit weird that people were having sex back then.”

John stared at him. How on earth was he meant to respond to that piece of rubbish? He wished Sherlock was here to offer some utterly scathing put down.

He often wished Sherlock was here.

“I’ll skip the next hour,” he said. “We had put our clothes back on before I realised that Mr. Hockley must have recognised us, and asked Sherlock what he was intending to do about that.”

****

“Nothing,” said Sherlock.

John blinked. “Surely he’s going to report us for theft?”

“Of course he’s not,” said Sherlock. “He’d have to reveal his own theft for that. No, we’re going to give that necklace back to Miss Dewitt, she’ll be able to tell Mr. Hockley that she’s found it, and Mr. Hockley won’t be able to accuse us of anything without us revealing what he did. He’ll just have to find some other way to avoid the marriage.”

John nodded. “It seems rather sad,” he said. “Mr. Hockley and the maid – Mrs. Hockley, I suppose. It seems sad that they should have to hide their love.”

Sherlock gave John a very long look. “Yes,” he agreed, and reached out to squeeze John’s hand. “I suppose it is.”

****

John let out a long breath. “And that was when we hit the iceberg,” he said.

“What?” said the interviewer. “Then?”

“Yes,” said John. “You do recall that happened, don’t you? It is rather the point of this whole thing.”

The cameraman shook his head. “Got to be honest, feels like we’ve got a whole ‘nother point now.”

John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Hundreds of people died,” he reminded them. There was a pause. “I’d like another cup of tea before I continue,” he said. “No, not tea. Something stronger. There’s brandy in that cupboard.”

The cameraman got him a glass and John took a large gulp. Right, he could do this.

****

There was a jolt and the ship shuddered.

“What was that?” asked John.

“We probably hit something,” said Sherlock. “Unlikely to be another vessel; ships tend to be able to avoid each other when they’ve got the whole Atlantic to play with.” He frowned, his brain working fast behind his eyes. John watched, fascinated. “Two options,” Sherlock announced after a moment. “We either dropped a propeller blade or hit an iceberg. At this time of year, there are enough of them in the shipping lanes for that to be the more likely possibility.”

“Christ!” said John. “Is that serious?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t know. Losing a propeller blade would slow us considerably, but not be much more of a problem than that. An iceberg is a different matter, but the _Titanic_ is built so that she should be able to survive a small collision.”

There was a sudden cessation of sound and vibration and for a moment John wondered if he’d gone deaf before he realised that the engines had been turned off.

“We need to get back up top,” said Sherlock. He turned and headed for the staircase and John followed after him. 

They headed up through the decks to the First Class promenade deck. There were occasional passengers around who had come out to find out what the jolt had been, but the crew weren’t offering any answers.

On deck, Sherlock immediately rushed to the side of the ship and looked down at the waterline. He stayed bent over for several long moments, then straightened.

“The ship is beginning to tilt forward,” he announced. “That means we did hit something, and we’re now taking on water.”

Adrenalin pumped through John’s system again, but it wasn’t the good kind that had made him giggle before. This kind came with a sick feeling in his stomach and an urge to grab hold of Sherlock and fold him away somewhere to be safe.

 _If we sink, nowhere will be safe,_ he thought, and then, “Oh god, the lifeboats. There aren’t enough.”

“No,” said Sherlock shortly.

There was silence for a few minutes as John desperately tried to work out what they should be doing and Sherlock returned to staring over the side at the bow, frowning fiercely.

“Maybe we should-” started John, but Sherlock urgently shushed him.

“I’m concentrating.”

John sighed, but shut up.

A few more minutes passed, then Sherlock let out a tiny breath and looked at John. “Given the angle the bow is at already, and the weight of water it would take to push a ship of this size down that much, I suspect that we are going to sink.”

John stared at him and then at the bow, which was only sloping down very gently. “It’s barely anything yet.”

“It will be,” said Sherlock grimly. “By my calculations, we’ve breached too many of the watertight compartments.”

“The what?” asked John, looking around. Should he be doing something to help? What could he possibly do, though? He was a doctor, not a marine engineer.

Sherlock made an irritated noise. “You should pay attention more, John. This ship has been built with watertight compartments. Up to four can be breached without the ship sinking.”

“You think more than that have been breached,” said John.

“I’m sure of it,” said Sherlock. He looked up at the boat deck, where crew members could be seen moving about around the lifeboats. “There are not enough lifeboats, John. There are far too few. Unless another ship is close enough to come to our aid... God, John, this is going to be a horrific disaster.”

His whole face had gone white and he looked terror-struck. It was that expression that made John realise just how bad this was. The sick feeling in his stomach rose up until he thought he might actually vomit.

The ship gave another jolt and a near-by couple stumbled. The woman gave a nervous cry. John looked around at the handful of passengers on the deck, at the way they were just wandering about with curiosity, and wondered how long it would be before panic set in.

“We need to do something,” he said.

Sherlock shook his head. “There’s nothing.”

John took a deep breath, and then another. They didn’t help. His legs were starting to feel weak, so he backed himself against a wall to get some support. “Oh god,” he said quietly. “God, please, let us live.”

Sherlock followed him to the wall, crowding against him as if to hide his panic from everyone else.

John shut his eyes for a moment, letting the emotion roll through him. When he opened them, Sherlock was giving him a look of concern that looked out-of-place on his face. That was enough to cut through John’s panic and he forced it back down.

“Right,” he said. “Well, what do we do, then?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Find a lifeboat before everyone else realises?”

John gaped at him. “What? No, Sherlock. Women and children first. And after that, I suppose it should be the men with families to support. We’re two single men – we’re right at the bottom of the list.”

“And you’re steerage,” Sherlock pointed out. John just blinked at him, wondering what that had to do with anything. Sherlock sighed. “Don’t be naive, John. You must have realised that there will be more deaths in Third Class than First.”

John swallowed, and then nodded his acceptance of that. “God, I suppose so,” he said. He thought of the other men who shared his cabin, of Mary Morstan who he had danced with. Where were they now? Far below decks, probably, with little or no hope of making it into a lifeboat.

He looked up at the sky. This was likely his last night on earth. He reached for Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it tightly, relying on their jackets to hide the gesture from the others around them. Not that it really mattered – if he was dying tonight, then there was no sense in hiding how he felt about Sherlock.

Huge clouds of smoke were starting to billow out of the funnels.

“Steam,” said Sherlock. “They’ll be reducing the fires in the boilers and venting, to avoid an explosion from ice-cold water hitting boilers filled with hot high-pressure steam.”

A steward appeared on the deck. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he announced. “I’m afraid there has been an incident, and the Captain is ordering a passenger muster on the Boat Deck. Please make your way up there now. Don’t worry about friends or relations who are in their cabins; we will be going from cabin to cabin to alert them.”

“Here we go,” said Sherlock quietly.

“I’m sorry,” said a near-by gentlemen who looked as if he was used to being obeyed under all circumstances. “We’re expected to all troop up there, in this cold? My wife is very delicate.”

“It’s Captain’s orders,” said the Steward. “I’m afraid it’s necessary.”

“Necessary?” repeated the man. “What on earth could be necessary about making us all freeze to death?”

The steward hesitated. “It’s Captain’s orders,” he repeated again. “Please, make your way to the Boat Deck as quickly as you can. I have other passengers I need to inform.” He turned and disappeared before further questions could be asked.

Indignant conversations immediately sprung up. Very few of the passengers began to move towards the Boat Deck.

“What’s wrong with them?” asked John. “Don’t they realise the danger?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Normal human reaction to this kind of thing. It takes a while to sink in. They’ll waste time being annoyed with the Captain first. Besides, it’s not as if he was very clear - I wonder if he even knows what’s happening yet.”

John and Sherlock followed the crowd up to the Boat Deck when they eventually decided to move. John let go of Sherlock’s hand only very reluctantly and from the look Sherlock gave him, he rather thought Sherlock would have liked the reassurance of human touch as well. John settled for keeping as close to Sherlock as he could, resting their shoulders together as they climbed up the stairs.

On the top deck, the noise from the steam venting out of the funnels was loud enough to make conversation difficult. John could see a cluster of crew members debating something largely using hand signals. 

He and Sherlock found a quiet corner and kept out of the way, their hands creeping back into each other again. John felt dazed, as if he’d received a blow to the head. _Maybe I have received a head injury, and this is just a hallucination,_ he thought without much hope.

It seemed to take an awfully long time for anything to happen. None of the crew really seemed to know what was going on. For a long time they just milled about, trying to reassure passengers and persuade them to put on lifebelts. Most of the passengers didn’t seem inclined to pay any attention to that, although both Sherlock and John took one and put them on. John wasn’t sure why – they both knew that if they went into the water, the cold would kill them long before drowning was a worry.

“At least the rescue ships will be able to fish out our corpses,” said Sherlock, very quietly.

John shuddered. “Don’t,” he said.

Sherlock was silent for a moment. “Apologies, John.”

John just nodded, and bent so that their shoulders touched. “Maybe we should just go and find an empty cabin and have sex until- until the end,” he said.

Sherlock snorted a laugh. “An excellent plan, but I’m not sure I’d be able to concentrate on you to the extent that you deserve while waiting for water to start seeping under the door.”

At that point, a more senior crew member arrived on deck. “Start the evacuation,” he called loudly enough to be heard over the noise of the steam. “Women and children only!”

There was a flurry of anxiety from the nearest passengers. “Evacuation? Into those tiny boats?” said one man. “You must be joking!”

“Not at all, sir,” said the man. “The Captain has ordered the evacuation.”

“For what reason? The ship’s just listing a bit – no need for all this palaver!”

The officer fixed him with a fierce look. “I’m sorry, sir, but it is vital that we evacuate immediately. Now, if you please – women and children to the lifeboats!”

There was more confusion, but eventually a lifeboat began to be filled.

“The crew don’t know what they’re doing,” remarked John. 

“No,” agreed Sherlock. 

The lifeboat began to be lowered. “They could have put far more people in that,” said Sherlock.

John let out a shuddering breath and had to turn away, into Sherlock’s chest. “Oh god,” he muttered.

Sherlock’s arms came around him, clinging on with a strength that said he was doing more than comforting John. Overhead, distress rockets went shooting up.

“There is a chance that there are other ships close enough to come and pick us up,” said Sherlock. “Then it doesn’t matter how many lifeboats there are, because they can make several trips.”

The tone in his voice made it all too clear that he didn’t believe that would happen any more than John did. The Atlantic was far too big for them to rely on another ship being close enough to get to them before the _Titanic_ went down.

John didn’t respond. He let the attempt at comfort lie as it was, without pointing out the holes in it.

The other lifeboats began to fill up. John could hear the officer having a fierce argument that was punctuated with firm statements of, “Women and children ONLY at this point, sir.”

The Boat Deck was starting to fill up with passengers, but John couldn’t help noticing how few of them looked as if they’d come from steerage.

“Oh, there’s Miss Dewitt,” said Sherlock. “And Lady Bukaker. They’re being put on a lifeboat.”

John turned to look. “I’ve got her necklace,” he remembered. “Do you think she wants it back?”

There was a pause, and then Sherlock shrugged. “Makes more sense than letting it sink.”

They moved away from their little corner and headed over to the crowd around the lifeboat. As they got there, an argument started up.

“What do you mean there’s not room for her?” Miss Dewitt was saying. She and her sister were already on the boat, but their maid was still hovering on the deck, looking nervous. “Of course there is! There’s an empty seat right here!”

“I’m sorry, Miss,” said the officer. “The boats have to be lowered – the mechanism might not be able to cope with the weight of a full boat.”

Sherlock glanced up at the divots and then snorted. “Of course they will,” he said.

The officer shot him a black look. “Please, sir, will you stand back? It’s woman and chil-”

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Sherlock.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes!” said Miss Dewitt. “I wonder – this man is refusing to let Maude join us. Could you possibly make sure she’s put on another boat?”

“There’s no need,” said Sherlock. “This one will take another five people. You need to fill it.”

The officer made an aggravated noise. “Sir, you have not been trained in-”

“Clearly, neither have you!” retorted John.

The officer looked as if he was going to explode, but before he could speak, there was a loud cry.

“Maude! Maude!” Mr. Hockley came sprinting out of nowhere and engulfed the maid in his arms. “Maude, oh thank God. I thought I wouldn’t find you.”

“Nathan,” she gasped, and clasped at him. “Oh! You’re wet.”

Mr. Hockley looked rather green. “I was below decks. It’s filling up fast – people are-” He stopped and took a deep breath. “I’m so glad to find you up here, and not trapped down there.”

“What on earth is going on?” asked Lady Bukaker in an icy tone. “What are you doing with that maid? You’re engaged to my sister!”

Mr. Hockley looked caught. “I-” he started.

The officer interrupted. “We don’t have time for this! Please, move away from the lifeboat so that we can lower it.”

“What?” said Mr. Hockley. “Aren’t you putting Maude in first?”

“He’s an imbecile,” said Sherlock. “He doesn’t realise that we need to fill the lifeboats up, because anyone not in one is going to die.”

There was a shocked murmur from the surrounding crowd.

Sherlock turned on his heel with a sneer. “Oh, come on! Look around you! This ship is going down! There aren’t enough boats for everyone and yet they’re letting some go without filling them, when they could be saving people’s lives!”

The officer had gone red with rage. “Sir, you don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“You have to save Maude,” said Mr. Hockley before Sherlock could reply. “Please! She’s my wife, and-”

“What?!” hissed Lady Bukaker, but was ignored by everyone.

“She’s pregnant,” continued Mr. Hockley. “You’ll be saving two lives, not just one.”

The officer hesitated. He glanced up at the divots holding the boat.

“It will take it,” said Sherlock firmly. “It can support the weight.”

“I-” said the officer, then he took a deep breath. “Right, fine. The maid can get on the boat. And,” he glanced around, “I need another four passengers. Women or children.”

“Oh, thank God,” said Mr. Hockley. He embraced Maude. “Be safe, my darling. I love you.”

“You can’t come?” asked Maude.

Mr. Hockley shook his head. “I’ll be on another boat,” he said.

From the stricken look on Maude’s face, John could tell she knew that was a lie. “Oh God,” she whispered. “Nathan, my love. Our child-”

“I love you both,” said Mr. Hockley.

John looked at Maude as she realised that she was going to be having her child without a husband and, given the look on Lady Bukaker’s face, without a job.

“Please, get into the boat now,” said the officer.

“Wait!” said John. He stepped forward, his mind working fast. “It’s – I’m a doctor. If she’s with-child, then she needs protection from the cold.” He stripped off his jacket and wrapped it around Maude’s shoulders, ignoring Mr. Hockley’s glare at how close he was to her.

He bent in close to Maude’s ear. “Don’t empty your pockets until you’re alone,” he whispered, and stepped away, back to Sherlock’s side.

“Nicely done,” said Sherlock in a low voice.

Maude was loaded onto the lifeboat, along with four other women, and then the boat was slowly lowered. Mr. Hockley stood at the rail the whole time it was descending, his eyes glued to hers.

When the boat was released and the crew started to row it away, he stood back with a sigh. He pulled a chain out from under his clothes and pulled it off his neck with a tug. He pulled the ring off it and pushed it onto his finger.

John moved next to him.

“She’ll be okay,” he said. “She has your Heart.”

Mr. Hockley looked at him with a frown, and then comprehension dawned over his features. “Oh,” he said, looking back out at the boat. “Your jacket. I- Thank you. Thank you so much.”

John shrugged awkwardly. “It seemed as if she needed it more than either you or Miss Dewitt.”

****

“So, the maid had the diamond,” said the cameraman. “Huh. No wonder nobody’s been able to trace it.”

The interviewer had pulled out his sheets of paper again. “Maude,” he said. “Maude what?”

John shrugged. “Hockley? I don’t know what her maiden name might have been.”

The interviewer scanned through the sheets with a frown. “Ah!” he said. “There is a Maude Hockley. Rescued by the _Carpathia_ , taken to New York, no one’s sure what happened to her after that.”

“I should imagine she flogged the jewel, and then used the money to set herself and her child up,” said the cameraman. “You know, if she’d announced who she’d been married to, she’d have got Mr. Hockley’s whole estate.”

“Only if she had evidence of the marriage,” said John. “I should imagine the wedding certificate went down with the ship.”

“Ah, yes,” said the cameraman.

“Okay,” said the interviewer. “What happened next?”

John stared at him. “What happened next? The ship sank, of course.”

“Well, yes,” said the interviewer, “but what happened with you and Sherlock? What did you do?”

John shrugged. “We watched the last few lifeboats be launched. We tried to keep our balance as the ship started to tilt more. We clung tightly to each others’ hands until we needed to cling to the ship instead.”

He took a big gulp of his drink. “I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t go into details. Mr. Hockley stayed with us. I know he saw us holding hands, but he never said a word about it. He was-”

John stopped and took a deep breath. “He fell when the stern broke off. Sherlock and I clung on longer, but eventually we ended up in the water as well. Everyone did.”

****

The water was even colder than John had been expecting and it crushed the air from his lungs. He struggled against the surge trying to pull him under and made it back to the surface to find Sherlock still next to him.

“John!” he gasped.

Around them was a sea filled with debris, ice and struggling figures. John looked around and thought that it must be what Hell looked like.

Sherlock tugged his shoulder, pulling him towards a wooden door that was floating on the waves. He crawled up onto it, his clothes threatening to drag him down. When he was up, John tried to follow him, but his weight caused the door to tilt suddenly, threatening to pitch Sherlock off again.

John settled back into the water. The cold was sapping the strength from his muscles anyway, getting up seemed far too much effort. “It’s fine,” he said, “I’ll just-”

“Don’t be a bloody fool!” snapped Sherlock. “Get up here! I’ll balance your weight. Count of three, John. One, two, three, up!”

Sherlock’s tone didn’t give John a choice. He followed the command without stopping to think, pushing himself up with the last strength in his body while Sherlock leaned his weight the other way to compensate. The door rocked and swayed, and for a heart-stopping moment John thought they were both going in the water, but then it stabilised with them both still on top.

“Thank God,” gasped John, and he collapsed down next to Sherlock. Sherlock flopped over, surrounding John with as much of his body as possible.

“Share warmth,” he muttered. “You gave your jacket away, you fool.”

John let out a tired laugh. “Why does it matter?” he asked, even as he cuddled in closer. “We’re not surviving this.”

“There may be a rescue ship,” said Sherlock. “The lifeboats may come back.”

“Unlikely,” said John. “If they come back now, they’ll be capsized by desperate people.”

All around he could hear the sounds of despair, people crying out with no hope in their voices, splashing uselessly in the water. He tucked his head in next to Sherlock’s, hoping to block it out. 

“If this was a cheap thriller, there’d have been a last minute rescue,” he said.

“I told you, John. This is an _expensive_ thriller. The rescue will be extremely last minute, but by the last chapter I’ll be playing the violin to you again.”

“That sounds lovely,” said John. “I suppose the book will end before the bit where I reward you for your playing.”

Sherlock snorted. “That would probably count as a bit too racey for most publishers.”

John let himself imagine it for a moment. Sherlock’s fingers dancing over the strings as he looked at John, seducing him with nothing more than music.

“Your hands,” said John. He wriggled until he had hold of Sherlock’s wrists, then pulled them into his chest. “Put them under my shirt. You can’t risk frostbite if you’re going to play for me.”

John pushed Sherlock’s hands under his clothes, shivering as they pressed against his skin and then moving in closer to Sherlock again, trapping them between their bodies.

“John,” said Sherlock in a quiet, almost broken voice. “My god, John. You’re-” He cut himself off, and took a deep, ragged breath. 

John clutched tighter at him. “I know,” he said. “I know.”

“It’s only been three days,” said Sherlock. “That’s not nearly long enough.”

“No,” agreed John.

They both fell silent, which meant that there was nothing drowning out the endless, horrifying moaning of those in the water, all of them slowly dying of cold.

“Talk to me,” said John. If they didn’t have long left, then he wanted every word of Sherlock’s that he could get.

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Do you remember when we met?”

“Of course,” said John.

“You never asked what I was doing,” said Sherlock. “You thought then that I was going to kill myself.”

John was silent for a moment, remembering the look on Sherlock’s face as he’d gazed down at the water below the stern. “Were you?” he asked.

“No,” said Sherlock. “I was-” He made an amused noise. “What I’m about to tell you is a government secret, John. Only two or three people are aware of it, and they are at the very highest level.”

John blinked. “Perhaps you shouldn’t tell me.”

Sherlock laughed. “What possible difference could it make now? No, John, I don’t think there’s any risk here.”

****

“Uh,” interrupted the interviewer. “Should you be telling us this?”

John raised his eyebrows. “This is a government secret from 1912. You can’t possibly imagine it’s still relevant in 1972?”

“It might be,” said the cameraman. “I don’t want to get into any trouble by revealing secrets in a documentary.”

John sighed. “It’s not a problem. It wasn’t really a secret after 1914, and certainly by now I should imagine that no one in the Government cares about it except as an interesting footnote from history.”

The interviewer hesitated, then nodded. “Right, go on then.”

****

“You remember that I mentioned my brother?” asked Sherlock.

John nodded. “He paid for your ticket.”

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock. “He works for the government. He’s rather high up, in fact – in a year or two I should imagine he’ll have control of a frighteningly large chunk of it. I think his aim is to become the British Government.”

“Christ,” said John. “And he sent you to America? Why?”

“Are you aware of the political situation in Europe at the moment?” asked Sherlock. “Have you kept up with the conflicts that are beginning to rise?”

“A bit,” said John. “I lost touch with the details while I was injured.”

“My brother knows every particular of it,” said Sherlock. “He collects information, you see, and then he predicts the future from it. He is almost always completely correct. He says that unless there is a drastic change, Europe will be at war within three years.”

“Good God!” said John. “Really?”

“At the moment, Britain is riddled with spies and secret agents from other countries. The most deeply entrenched is the German network. My brother asked me to infiltrate it so that we could control the information they’re getting and, eventually, arrest the whole lot of them. In order to do that, I needed a convincing persona. I took this voyage with the sole intention of faking my own death while making it. When you met me, I was preparing to make it look as if there had been a struggle and I had gone overboard. I had a lot of paperwork in my cabin about a criminal mastermind I was after, who I claimed had sent an assassin after me. I was then going to go down to the cargo decks and hide until we reached New York, when I would slip away and disappear.”

John was speechless. “Really?” he asked. “That’s- And then what? How would you have infiltrated the spy network?”

Sherlock gave an awkward shrug. “I was intending to build a persona as an Irish-American who was disgruntled with British policy in Ireland, live as him for long enough to make him seem solid, and then return to England and become involved in anti-British espionage. From there, it would have been easy to work my way up to meeting the top agent, all while feeding false information that would have been sent back to Germany, and then, just as war became inevitable, given all the names to Mycroft to arrest.”

John thought about that. “You really are a genius,” he said. “If anyone could have done it, you could.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment. “I was putting it off,” he said. “Faking my death, I mean. I was so bored that I was going to do it early, and then I met you, and I kept putting it off. I kept trying to tell myself there was some way to take you with me.”

John shifted his head so that he could press his face into Sherlock’s neck. “I’d have come,” he whispered. “If I could, I’d have gone with you. I think I’d go with you anywhere.”

“It’s only been three days,” said Sherlock.

“I know,” said John. “It seems so sudden, it’s insane, but you- Sherlock, you’re-”

“Don’t,” said Sherlock as a man somewhere near-by started to call out to God in fear. “Don’t, please John. Not now, like this.”

****

John cleared his throat. His glass was empty.

“I think I need another drink.”

“Of course,” said the interviewer. The cameraman rushed to get it.

John shut his eyes for a moment, rubbing at the point between them as if he could wipe away the memories. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It was so long ago, you’d think it would have less hold over me.”

“Not at all,” said the interviewer. “Some things are too big for us to ever let them go.”

John nodded at that and took the drink from the cameraman.

“Well then. I suppose that’s it, really. When one of the lifeboats did finally come back, almost everyone was dead, but Sherlock and I were still alive. Pressed together on that door – if he’d let me stay in the water, I probably would have been dead by then. They fished us out, along with the tiny handful of others who were still alive, then we all huddled together through the night, until the _Carpathia_ turned up.”

****

It took hours to get the survivors out of the lifeboats and onto the _Carpathia_. By the time Sherlock and John made it on board, the sun was up, although that didn’t seem to be making things much warmer. They got given blankets and hot drinks, and then found a space to sit as they watched others wander around, looking for lost family and friends and generally failing to find them.

Eventually, men came around with clipboards, taking names. Sherlock was half-asleep by then, resting his head against the wall behind him. John was a bit more awake but not by much. There were hundreds more people than could fit comfortably in the space available, and yet there was a hush over everyone. No one really seemed to have much to say, as if words weren’t enough to express what they were feeling. Or maybe, like John, they could still hear the cries of dying ringing in their ears and they couldn’t bear to speak over it.

“Could I take your name, please, sir?” asked the man with clipboard.

John looked up at him with weary eyes. Beside him, Sherlock shifted slightly.

“James,” said John. “James Dawson. And this is my friend, Altamont. Hector Altamont.”

“Thank you,” said the man, noting that down and then moving on.

Sherlock lifted his head up to look at John. “Altamont?” he repeated.

John shrugged. “Bunk below me,” he said. “I think he said he was from Chicago. He was a mechanic.”

Sherlock considered that for a moment. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I can make that work.” He looked at John again. “James,” he said, slowly. “You’ll be coming with me, then?”

John shrugged. “If you still want me to.”

Sherlock’s hand reached out for his, buried beneath their blankets. “Yes. Of course. I’d like nothing more.”

****

John sat back with a sigh. “And that’s it,” he said.

The interviewer blinked. “What? You’re stopping there?”

John shrugged. “The _Titanic_ sunk, we were rescued. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” said the interviewer. “That’s just the beginning. What happened next? Did you take down the spies?”

“Oh yes,” said John. “We worked at it for two years. A year in America laying our groundwork, then back to England to bring down Van Bork – he was Germany’s master-spy at that time. We then travelled to London, where Sherlock’s brother was exceedingly glad to see him. He removed all mention of his name from the records about the _Titanic_ – John Watson is common enough, but questions would have been asked about the sudden disappearance and then reappearance of a Sherlock Holmes. Not long after that, the war began.”

“And you were still, you know?” said the cameraman, glancing at the interviewer. “All through the two years?”

“Oh yes,” said John. “All through our lives.”

****

John had flatly told Sherlock that he wasn’t allowed to come to the train station to see him off. Instead, they stood in the hallway of Mycroft’s flat with John in his starchy new Army uniform, his bag at his feet, while Sherlock gripped John’s hands and told him, fiercely, that he wasn’t allowed to die.

“We made it through the worst maritime disaster of our time,” he said. “You have to make it through this as well.”

“I’ll do my best,” said John. “You too.”

Sherlock made a face. “What danger is there in hiding in government buildings, working on their stupid codes and silly intelligence reports?”

“Isn’t that what we thought about a voyage on an ocean liner?” asked John.

Sherlock dismissed that with a scowl. “John, you’re not taking this seriously.”

John let out a sigh. “I am,” he said. He stepped in close enough to press a kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “I promise, I am. I just don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll come back to me,” said Sherlock. He took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. “You must have realised that this will be the greatest separation we’ll have experienced since we met. I had...I had come to assume that you would always be my side. I’m finding it hard to re-evaluate that assumption.”

John gripped at his hands. “I’ll come back,” he said. “I will, and then we won’t ever have to do this again.”

“Not for the rest of our lives,” said Sherlock.

“Yes,” agreed John, and kissed him again, reaching up to cup his head in his hands. “The rest of our lives.”

Sherlock let out a choked laugh. “Does that make us married, then?”

“As good as,” said John. He took a deep breath and stepped back. “I need to go. Sherlock, I- I love you. I’ll do my best to return.”

Sherlock just nodded and stayed where he was as John walked away, out of the door.

****

“Married?” repeated the interviewer with an odd look on his face. “Isn’t that a bit...? I mean, surely it’s not the same as if one of you had been a woman?”

John glared at him. “I fail to see how it would have been any different. We did spend our lives together, after all. I came back from the war in 1918, after I was shot, and he bought this cottage so that I would have somewhere to recuperate. When the flu pandemic began, he hid the newspapers from me so that I wouldn’t feel I had to find a hospital and volunteer to help. He stayed here with me for three years, doing very little more than looking after bees and helping me get back to myself. And then, when I asked him if he didn’t want to be a detective again, he agreed as if he hadn’t been itching to get back the minute the government let him go.”

“And that’s when your stories begin,” said the cameraman. “What’s the first one? A Study In- something.”

“Yes,” agreed John. “The murderous cabbie. I pretended in it that Sherlock and I had only met after the war, and no one ever questioned it, or wondered why Sherlock hadn’t solved any cases between 1918 and 1921. But then, people didn’t tend to ask about those years then. They knew that most people were just clinging on, hoping that things would one day start to get better, rather than just always getting worse.”

The interviewer nodded quietly. “And then you and he were detectives,” he said. “Twenty years, wasn’t it?”

“A bit less,” said John. “And I did try and have a medical practice at the same time, although it never took priority over Sherlock’s cases. Still, it was enough to keep my hand in, so that when the next war arrived and Sherlock got whisked away by the intelligence services again, I was able to go and work in a hospital for convalescent soldiers. I was a bit too old for more than that, to Sherlock’s considerable relief. That was where I met your father.”

The interviewer nodded. “He was always so proud about that. He used to drop it into as many conversations as he could. ‘When I worked with Doctor Watson during the war, oh yes, _that_ Doctor Watson...’”

John smiled. “He was a good man. A bit nosey, though.”

****

“You can’t honestly tell me that being the companion of the Great Detective doesn’t come with a certain amount of female attention,” said Murray as he washed his hands at the sink beside John’s. “Capturing criminals, running about saving young maidens from dastardly villains....you must have been knee-deep in women!”

“You make it sound like a music hall show,” said John.

Murray waved that away. “Come on, I’ve read your stories. Every other case had a beautiful young woman, and it seemed rather obvious that Holmes didn’t have time for them.”

“No,” agreed John. “He barely has time for anyone.”

“Well, then,” said Murray, expectantly.

John was stuck. He’d spent months trying to get Murray off this subject, but he just wouldn’t take the hint. John had had access to scores of vulnerable young women, so naturally he must have taken advantage. _If only there was some way to tell him that I’m in love, and as good as married, and so there was never any question of me getting up to that sort of thing,_ he thought.

Maybe there was.

“I was on the _Titanic_ , you know,” said John.

Murray blinked with surprise. “You were? I’ve never seen that anywhere.”

John shrugged. “I keep quiet about it. And I gave a false name when I was rescued, so I’m not on the official lists as a survivor.”

“A false name?” repeated Murray. “Why on earth...?”

John clenched his jaw. “There was a woman called Mary Morstan on board as well. Beautiful, curly blonde hair, and she danced like she was floating through the air. When the ship sank, she-” He cut himself off, feeling slightly sick that he was doing this to the memory of a woman he’d barely known for ten minutes. “I wasn’t really in the mood to be John Watson after that,” he said. “I spent a year or two in America, with another name, and then when the war began I came back to be part of it.”

“Oh,” said Murray, very quietly. He put his hand on John’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I won’t mention it again.”

John managed a nod, then turned and ran away to his ward.

****

“Sherlock was rather grumpy when I told him about that,” remembered John. “But then, he was always grumpy when we had to lie about that kind of thing. I think he wanted the whole world to know what we were to each other. He used to introduce me as his ‘intimate companion’, which really wasn’t subtle at all, but- Well, I liked it too much to stop him.”

“There were no more cases after the war, were there?”asked the interviewer.

John shook his head. “We were both tired after it, and rather sick of the horrible things that people do to each other. We came back here to retire, and he went back to studying bees. He wrote a book, you know.”

“And then he died last year,” said the interviewer.

John paused and nodded. “Yes,” he said. Fifty-nine years longer than they’d expected to get as they’d lain together on that raft, but somehow still not enough time.

The interviewer was silent for a minute, as if waiting for him to add something else, then he sat back with a little sigh. “Well,” he said. “Thank you for your time, Doctor Watson. It’s been- well.” He glanced at the cameraman. “It’s been a revelation, frankly.”

John managed a smile for him. “Well, as I said before, I think the time has come to stop lying about it. Besides, when I do pass on, there’s more than enough evidence in this house for the whole thing to come out anyway. We both had a tendency to say rather more than we should in letters to each other.”

The interviewer nodded rather a few too many times, and then looked at the cameraman. “We need to get back to London,” he said.

The cameraman nodded. “It’s pretty late.”

“You let an old man ramble on for far longer than you should have,” said John.

“Not at all, not at all,” said the interviewer, standing up as the cameraman started to dismantle his equipment. “It was fascinating. Ah, could I use your toilet before we go?”

John nodded. “Top of the stairs, turn right.”

The cameraman waited until the interviewer was upstairs before speaking. “I really admire you doing this,” he said quietly.

“You do?” asked John.

He nodded. “Yeah. I mean, just because it’s legal now, it doesn’t mean people are accepting. It’s- I know it’s going to mean a lot to loads of people that someone like you is willing to tell the truth about being gay. You know?” He paused and nervously wetting his lips, glancing up towards the stairs. “It means a lot to me,” he added.

John was silent for a moment, and then nodded. “I’m glad,” he said. “Things are better now than they were when I first met Sherlock. I hope that by the time you’re my age, you’re able to say the same thing.”

The cameraman looked up and gave him a grateful smile just as the interviewer started to come back down the stairs.

John stood on the front doorstep to watch them go, then turned to stump back into the sitting room. He moved the photo of him from 1914 back to where it have been and paused to look at the photo of Sherlock that stood beside it. That one had been taken much later and showed Sherlock giving the camera one of his best scowls. John rested his hand on the frame.

“I think I did something good today,” he said. “I think you’d have approved.”

Sherlock’s image continued to glare out at the world and John let out a sigh, then turned away. Another cup of tea, perhaps, and then time to read the paper.


End file.
